


But Last Night, I Had a Dream

by Dangerousnotbroken



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dream interpretation, Dreams, Drinking, Emotionally Repressed Dean, M/M, My First Destiel Fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 09:55:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2105337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangerousnotbroken/pseuds/Dangerousnotbroken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wasn’t aware he had been dreaming until he slammed back in to consciousness.  In retrospect, it should have been obvious.  Not one to give in to self-reflection usually, he found himself lying in bed, awake but still, eyes closed, running through the minutia of the little story his brain had spun out, over and over, like a movie on repeat.  It made him uncomfortable, to succumb to introspection like this.  His limbs were so heavy; he craved sleep still, but his body and his mind were at odds.  His physical self cried ‘Rest!’ and the aches of too many years of hard living, of fighting and drinking and life on the run lifted it to a raucous chorus, a cacophony, a harmony of exhaustion, and he felt as if it might win out for a brief moment.  But no sooner had he started to relax, let his sore, battered muscles settle, than his brain asserted itself, taunted him with conjured images and half remembered sensations, and it wasn’t fair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Last Night, I Had a Dream

_I can’t touch you now, I’m paralyzed, I’m like a child, with the saddest eyes_

_You won’t talk to me, you’re over me You won’t take me back, I need you back_

_You’re so alive, it makes me numb I could survive but I don’t want to_

_You’re the ruby and I’m the lead Feeling heavy, am I dead?_

_But last night, I had a dream_

_I saved your life, I proved my love_

_I took the bullet, I killed a shark_

_Kissed your hand, I thawed your heart_

_I thawed your heart…._

_You’re not around, I’m lost It seems all I do anymore is hit the sauce_

_And at the end of another glass Is a drop of gin, and I’m sinking_

_But last night, I had a dream_

_I saved your life, I proved my love_

_I took the bullet, I killed a shark_

_I kicked some ass, I won your heart_

_I won your heart…._

_Do you want to? You do want to Cause I want you, ‘cause I need you_

_Do want to? Say you want to Cause I want you, ‘cause I need you too…._

_But last night, I had a dream_

_I saved your life, I proved my love_

_I took the bullet, I killed a shark_

_I healed your wounds, I thawed your heart_

_I thawed your heart_

_I thawed your heart_

_And you melted in my arms._

**_\--Phil Roy “Melt”_ **

****

            Dean wasn’t aware he had been dreaming until he slammed back in to consciousness. In retrospect, it should have been obvious. Not one to give in to self-reflection usually, he found himself lying in bed, awake but still, eyes closed, running through the minutia of the little story his brain had spun out, over and over, like a movie on repeat. It made him uncomfortable, to succumb to introspection like this. His limbs were so heavy; he craved sleep still, but his body and his mind were at odds. His physical self cried ‘Rest!’ and the aches of too many years of hard living, of fighting and drinking and life on the run lifted it to a raucous chorus, a cacophony, a harmony of exhaustion, and he felt as if it might win out for a brief moment. But no sooner had he started to relax, let his sore, battered muscles settle, than his brain asserted itself, taunted him with conjured images and half remembered sensations, and it _wasn’t fair_. He’d learned not to trust dreams long years ago. When a Djinn had given him the perfect life he craved, in a fever dream fuelled by dark magic, he’d learned not to trust things that seemed too good to be true. He’d learned that his own mind could easily betray him given half a chance and the right motivation. When he’d been dragged from hell, when _Cas_ had dragged him from hell, his own mind had become his enemy, torturing him with visions of the horrible things he’d done, that had been done to him, and he’d learned that dreams could be cruel. This dream was neither of those things and yet it unsettled him so much more. This was haunting, ephemeral, confusing and melancholy. It hinted at things rather than throwing them in his face, showing him glimpses of something but not telling him what it meant. It was like an art house film, full of metaphor and allegory and camera tricks and, like those films, it went right over his head. It twisted memories into something unfamiliar; a caricature of what was true, only he wasn’t in on the joke. His own mind was playing tricks on him. He tried again to shut it down, to relax and escape into a heavy, dreamless sleep, but it was futile. He glanced at the clock for the first time. 2:37 AM. He’d only gone to bed an hour ago, but it felt like he’d been dreaming for days. Admitting defeat, he rolled himself out of bed and tugged on a sweatshirt against the early morning chill. He was pouring himself a glass of whiskey before he knew he wanted one. There was an edge to the amber liquor that solidified his belief that this was reality. The dream had gotten so far under his skin, he’d actually been doubting he was truly awake until he took a sip and tasted the bite of it, the warm, soothing burn as it trickled down his throat and lit a fire in his belly. He drained the glass in one long pull, then hesitated before pouring another. “Why not?” He decided after a brief assessment. “Nothing goes better with brooding at three am than drinking alone.”

 

            The second glass he poured was significantly larger than the first, and this time he languished over it, letting the ice melt a little before sipping, allowing himself to taste the drink, savouring it as he rolled it over his tongue. He sank into a chair with a sigh. There were books strewn all across the table, volumes of lore and histories and languages and myth and legend and nonsense. He could read something, drown out the part of his brain that was still cycling through the dream on an endless loop, throw himself into research, find a case and push it all aside until he felt like dealing with it. But he knew that time would never come, because he could count on one hand the number of times he’d willingly dealt with his feelings like an adult, and because he knew his traitorous mind wouldn’t allow him that respite anyway. He knew as his hand reached out for the nearest book that cracking the spine and flipping through the pages would grant him only the briefest distraction, before the thing he was trying to avoid asserted itself again, pushed itself to the forefront of his mind and screamed, railed, demanded his full attention, and he knew that it would happen over and over and over until he figured out what his brain was trying to force on him. It didn’t mean he had to like it, but he knew it was true.

            He leaned back in the chair with a sigh, fingers laced behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. The dream had not felt real, he was sure of that. People often say this, when they get wrapped up in dreams; that it felt _so real,_ but this one did not. It felt, if he was honest, completely and totally unreal, from the first second until the last, from the moment it started until he was jarred awake, left reeling from the assault on his mind. It felt like he was intruding on someone else’s thoughts, although he knew it certainly came from his own mind. He sat up and took another mouthful of his drink, as if he could chase the darkness from his mind with the liquor. It didn’t work. He sipped, swallowed, revelled in the taste of it, but as soon as his mouth emptied and the liquor slid down his throat to warm his belly, he was back in the middle of his unwelcome analysis. He picked at fragments of the dream hesitantly, as if worried he would pull the wrong thread and the whole mess would unravel on him, leaving a pile of strings instead of the tapestry his subconscious had woven. He wondered if he’d welcome this, then shook it off. Now that he had acknowledged it, the thought that his brain was trying to tell him something nagged at him and would continue to nag until he rooted it out. If he let the tapestry unravel, he’d be clueless, lost in the landscape of his own mind’s eye, without a guide, and it would pick at him until it drove him insane. Dean could be dramatic when he wanted to.

            _I’m standing in a field,_ he remembered, coaxing up the images and the sensations and the emotions of the dream, not running through it like a movie now, but blocking it out like a stage play, noting each detail with fastidious attention, marking and pacing each movement and trying to recall _exactly_ what his brain showed him.

_I’m standing in a field. The grass is tall, up to my knees. It’s dry and sere and the air is warm, but not harsh. It’s not hot. Just warm. There’s a breeze, a subtle breeze. It’s comforting. The breeze blows across the field and I don’t know what direction it’s coming from, but the scent of it is familiar. I can’t place it, couldn’t tell you what it means, but I know it in my bones. It rustles the grass gently, blows the dust from my shoulders. In the field, there is just me and the wind. It’s daylight, looks close to_ _noon_ _, but I can’t see the sun in the sky. The light is just everywhere. I turn to my left, and I’m suddenly full of the knowledge that I have somewhere to be. I turn, and suddenly I’m miles away. It’s the same field, but now I’m on the edge of it, and there’s an old dirt road. Dust rises off the road, like something just rolled through it, fast and hurried, but I can’t see the source. It’s long gone, but the dust still hangs in the air. There’s a tree across the road, and I think I remember that I need to go to that tree. I take a step, just one step, but now I’m right at the tree. The tree is impossibly old, its roots strong and solid and immovable. The trunk is so thick; me and Sam couldn’t touch hands if we tried to reach around it. Two me’s and two Sams couldn’t reach. “Sammy”, my dream self thinks. Now I wonder where Sammy is. If I’m on a mission, Sammy must be somewhere nearby. We always do these things together. But then no, I remember, I’m in this one alone. Sam isn’t here. I shake my head and look in to the branches of the tree. It is lush, the thick green leaves blocking out the sky above. It feels ancient to me, older than I can imagine. On the ground at my feet is an axe. It isn’t a proper wood axe; it’s more a weapon than a tool. I pick it up anyway, and take a swing at the tree. The blade lodges deep in the trunk, and it’s difficult to pull it loose. I swing the axe again, and again, over and over. It’s barely making a dent in the solid, hard wood, but I know I need to keep chopping. I need to see what’s in the middle of the tree. I feel hot now, though it was comfortable before. I take my coat off, which I didn’t realize I was wearing before. Maybe I wasn’t. There’s something around my neck, I notice now. It’s a pendant on a chain, not the one Sam gave me for Christmas all those years before, but a flat disc about the size of my palm. I don’t know where I got it, but it seems wrongt to be wearing it, so I take it off and drop it in the grass. I pick the axe back up, and turn back to the tree. It’s cut half way through, and I don’t remember doing it, but I must have. There’s no one else here. I raise the axe to swing again and the world_ shifts _, and I’m not outside anymore. I’m underground somewhere. It’s dark, but not pitch black. There are boxes stacked high against the walls. They’re precarious and haphazard.   There’s a staircase in the corner. I don’t want to leave the basement, I think. Suddenly, Sam is there. Maybe he’s been here the whole time._

_“You shouldn’t be down here, Dean.” Sam says, his voice is flat. “You’ve been down here too long. You shouldn’t stay.” I think he might be right, but I don’t want to leave. I am aware that I don’t want to face what is outside. I don’t walk for the stairs. There’s another door behind Sam, and I go through that door. I’m in a hotel room. It’s not one of the cheap ones we stay in when we’re hunting. It’s a nice hotel room. My duffel bag is on the bed, and it smells like mint in the room. I feel dirty. I feel like I’ve been in these clothes for weeks. I walk in to the bathroom and undress, turn on the shower, but instead of stepping in, I stare in the mirror. My chest is covered in scars. I don’t even remember where I got them all. I trace my fingers over some of the worst ones. “The deepest scars are the ones I can’t see anymore” I hear myself say. “These ones are just memories.” I step in to the shower. It’s too hot, but I leave it that way. As I wash away the dirt, I expect the water to swirl red with blood, but it doesn’t. It’s purple, vibrant and intense. I step out of the shower and pull on a bathrobe that’s hanging on the door, and I walk back in to the room. I walk to my duffel bag for clean clothes, because I am suddenly aware there is somewhere I have to be. There is a snake on my bed. It doesn’t look like it’s going to attack me, but I want it gone anyway. I reach into my bag for a knife, and I cut the snake’s head off. It doesn’t bleed. It just falls. I eat the snake. I don’t know why. I pick it up, and I swallow it whole. I’m not in the hotel anymore. I’m in_ _Lawrence_ _, outside our old house. It looks like it did before the fire. I’m dressed in the same clothes I was before the shower, but they’re clean now like they were brand new. The air smells like cinnamon and basil. That’s a weird combination. I wrinkle my nose._

_“You don’t have to have scars anymore, you know.” I hear Castiel behind me, and I turn to look at him. His trench-coat is full of holes. They’re bullet holes. This is the Castiel I first met, the one I shot in a barn in_ _Pontiac_ _so long ago. “If you stop feeding them, they’ll go away on their own.” His face isn’t right. It’s a grotesque distortion of Castiel. It’s not like when the leviathan had him. It’s twisted somehow, its Cas but it’s not Cas. It’s wrong. I try to look away but I can’t turn my head._

_“If it were that easy, no one would have scars.” I say, because I don’t know what else to do. He tilts his head to the side like he always does, and for a second he’s Cas again._

_“You don’t have to have scars anymore” he repeats. I open my mouth to ask him what he means. “You think it means you’re broken. I think it means you’re free.”_

_“Nobody is free, Cas” I say, but I don’t know what I mean._

_“I used to think that too. You don’t know what broken is. You think you know, but you’re just going through the motions. Let your scars die, Dean. You’re already free, you just won’t admit it yet.” He vanishes, but his trench-coat is on the ground where he was standing. It’s not the clean, new coat with the bullet holes that he was wearing a moment ago. It’s the dirty, torn, bloody one he left behind when he walked in to the lake._

_“I can’t let my scars die, Cas,” I say, even though I know he isn’t there anymore. “They’re they only thing holding me up.” I pick up the trench coat and turn back to the house, but now it’s burnt. It’s ashes. My dad is there._

_“You’re a slow learner, Dean. Never could teach you anything. Stop trying to run and learn to walk first. If you won’t let me teach you, at least try to learn on your own.” He’s speaking to me, but he’s not looking at me. He’s looking past me, to another Dean, a Dean who is older than me. The other Dean has grey hair at his temples and more lines on his face, but he’s still me. He has a beard, full and thick, and it is grey too. I run a hand along my chin and I notice that I have a beard now too._

_“I don’t have time for learning, Dad” the other Dean says. “If I stop to breathe I’ll drown. I have to keep going. It’s too late to pick a new path. I just have to see where this one goes.” The other Dean sounds angry._

_“All paths lead to the same place.” Dad is walking towards the other Dean now, he still doesn’t see me. “It’s just a matter of how long it takes you to get there, and how much you have left when you get there. Stop worrying about the road. Think about where it’s taking you. If you won’t learn to walk first, at least stop fighting it.” The other Dean looks down. He doesn’t look at Dad. He has a knife, and he sticks it into Dad’s belly. Dad doesn’t flinch. Other Dean twists the knife, and Dad is bleeding all over the sidewalk._

_“Thank you,” Dad says, as he slumps to the ground. I wake up just as he falls._

Dean sat at the table until Sam woke up. It was always hard to mark the passage of time in the bunker, because there were no windows. Midnight and noon were indecipherable from one another, and he was so wrapped up in thought, he forgot to notice how long he’d been there. Sam pretended not to notice how ragged his brother looked. Dean wouldn’t have acknowledged it anyway if he asked.

 

            He had the same dream again that night, identical in every discernable way. _You don’t have to have scars anymore, you know_ , dream-Cas told him again. _I can’t let my scars die, Cas,_ he replied the same as before. He wished he knew the things dream-Dean knew. If he figured the dream out, maybe it would go away and let him sleep. He woke up angry this time. He wasn’t sure if he was angry at the other Dean for killing his father on the sidewalk, or at dream-Cas for disappearing without explaining his words, or at himself for his inability to decipher the puzzle he’d set himself to, but he was angry. It was an empty, impotent rage, directionless and untargeted and that somehow made him angrier. He refused to get out of bed this time, and stared at the ceiling until the haunting red glow of the digital clock came from numbers that told him it was a reasonable time to get up and begin to mime his way through the day.

 

            He had the same dream again the next night, too. He didn’t wake up angry this time, but melancholy. His belly was hollow; a nagging void that pulled at his insides until he felt like it would tear him apart. The dream had been the same each time, so how could it keep affecting him in different ways? He rolled over in his bed, refusing to look at the clock or the ceiling or the thin strip of light that crept under the bedroom door, and he thought he might have fallen back to sleep for a little bit. He couldn’t be sure.

 

            He had the same dream every night now. Some nights he woke up right as Other-Dean killed his father outside their house in Lawrence. Some nights he stayed asleep after it ended, only waking hours later with a vague impression of having dreamed the dream he couldn’t escape. Some nights he woke as he chopped at the tree, some nights he woke when he cut the snake’s head off. Some nights, the worst nights, he just dreamed the dream over and over until he woke, empty and alone, and dragged himself out of the bedroom. He stopped expecting alcohol to help, but he didn’t stop trying to make it help anyway. Analyzing the dream felt pointless now. He didn’t know what his brain was trying to tell him, though it was screaming it in his face like it was the most obvious thing in the world. It was agony.

 

            He dreamed the same dream over and over and over, for so many nights that he stopped counting them. It was always the same, except for when he woke up before it was over. That was all that ever changed. On one particular morning, he woke from the dream, as Other-Dean twisted the knife into dream-Dad, left him bleeding on the pavement, and he was aware that he’d only laid down minutes before. His brow was sweaty, his palms clammy, and he got the immediate impression that further sleep was going to be elusive. He rose from his bed, grudgingly, and, sparing only an angry glance for the clock that read 1:05 AM, wandered from his bedroom in search of distraction. Sam was still sitting over a book at the table, and although what Dean really wanted was to be alone, somewhere his thoughts couldn’t reach him, he sat across the table from his younger brother and scrubbed an anxious hand through his hair.

            “Dude you look like hell.” Sam commented, no offence intended in his voice. Just a clear statement of fact. Dean imagined he was probably correct. He felt like hell.

            “Can’t sleep.” Dean offered, not an explanation, just a statement.

            “That seems to be a trend with you lately. When’s the last time you slept through the night?” Sam took a long draw on the beer sitting beside him, condensation on the bottle leaving behind a ring on the table to prove it had been there.

            “Don’t remember? Not recently.“ He avoided eye contact with his brother, out of habit, but also because he was afraid that Sam would see too much in his eyes if they met.

            “You’ve been having nightmares again?” Sam stood up from the table before Dean could respond, returning a moment later with two more cold glass bottles. He handed one to his brother and sat back down, twisting the top off of his own beer.

            “Dreams, yeah. Not nightmares. Not hell-shit. Just regular fucked up shit.”

            “You know Dean, if you weren’t so repressed, maybe if you actually dealt with things when you were awake, you might not have so much unresolved crap to sort through in your sleep. There’s some really interesting psychology around dreams and the brain’s ability to handle emotional turmoil and damaging memories in REM sleep.” Sam was only trying to be helpful, but it rubbed Dean the wrong way.

            “I am not repressed.” His reply was fierce, but internally he acknowledged that Sam might be right. Still, accepting that you might be repressing things was a far cry from actually un-repressing those things and dealing with them in the daylight.

            “Right. Anyway. You wanna tell me about the dreams?”

            “Dream. Singular. Same one every night, and no, I’m not going to let you play Sigmund Freud with me.”

            “Freud might have been the first to really talk about dream interpretation, but a lot of the modern research is based more on Aserinsky and Kleitman’s research. And I’m not saying I’m gonna psychoanalyze you. I just think you maybe need to get it off your mind and out in the open.”

            “Jesus Sammy is there anything you don’t read about? You big geek.”

            “Think about it Dean. It is actually helpful to talk about things on occasion, you know.” Dean didn’t want to discuss it further, so he drained his beer and went back to bed.

 

            Castiel appeared behind Sam mere moments after Dean went back to bed. He was consciously aware of the rustle of the angel’s wings, a slight shifting in the air as he flew in to the room. It always felt more like he materialized out of nowhere, but Castiel had explained that he just flew faster than human perception could grasp. It didn’t make a difference.

            “Hey Cas.” Sam smiled at the angel, not for the first time feeling slightly unsettled by the unreadable look on his gruff face. He’d softened considerably since they’d first met him, but he was still difficult to interpret and frequently offered no explanation for his actions. And he stared. That was a habit that irked his brother to no end, Sam was aware. It’s just that he stared at Dean much longer than he did with Sam, or with anyone else.

            “Hello, Sam.” He looked around the room, his face placid, hands still at his sides.

            “Dean’s in bed,” Sam answered the unspoken question. “He’s been having screwed up dreams. Can’t sleep.”

            “Nightmares?” Castiel asked, a look of concern flashing across his face briefly, before smoothing back out into a blank canvas.

            “No, not like that, he says. But you know Dean, he doesn’t talk about things.”

            “I see,” was all Cas offered in response. “I will return, later, when you are both awake.” He disappeared without further comment, fluttering off to whatever angel business he was on. Sam turned back to the book he’d been reading, then discarded it without reading another page. He pulled up his laptop, loaded Google, and started searching.

 

            Castiel didn’t leave the bunker, though he allowed Sam to think he had. Instead, he alighted just outside Dean’s bedroom door. He could have landed himself inside, but he knew that Dean hated that, and if he was awake, it would be awkward. Instead, he paused with a hand on the doorknob and listened for any indication that the hunter was awake. His breathing sounded slow and even. Still, Castiel stood there for several more minutes. After an agonizingly long time, he heard the sound he was waiting for. Dean’s snoring ripped through the air, a sleepy roar, and Castiel knew he could enter without disturbing the man. Dean was sprawled out on his back in boxers and a t-shirt, one leg kicked out from under the blankets, arms splayed and head lolled to the side. His mouth was open, and with each breath he snored again. Castiel stepped in to the room, slow and soundless, shutting the door gently behind him, and crouched beside the bed. Dean didn’t stir in his sleep, but from the way his eyes moved behind his lids, Castiel could tell he was dreaming. He lifted a hand, letting it hover hesitantly above the hunter’s brow, though he wasn’t certain why he hesitated. He placed two fingers there gently, pressing the pads of his digits to the man’s forehead, and drew upon the ability of his Grace. Castiel knew Dean wouldn’t welcome an observer in his dream, especially one that unsettled him like this, but he wasn’t going to talk to anyone about it and Castiel felt obligated to help him. Perhaps he could interpret some of the symbols in the recurring event and point Dean in the right direction. Perhaps Dean would notice his presence and ask for help. He was unsure, but he was compelled to act anyway. This was the only avenue open to him.

 

            Dean dreamed the dream again, after his brief conversation with Sam. He dreamed it without knowing that Castiel was watching, and he woke in the morning without knowing Cas had been to the bunker at all. Sam didn’t say anything about it, just greeted his brother with warmth and asked how he slept. Dean grunted. Not well and not long enough.

 

            That night, Dean decided not to go to bed. He was going to sleep poorly, he knew, or not at all, so he rebelled against the obvious physical requirement of rest and set his determination not to sleep at all. Maybe by the time morning rolled around, he’d be so exhausted he’d sleep right through the dream, or he wouldn’t dream at all. Just one night without the haunting, cryptic freakshow of his subconscious. That’s all he asked. So when Sam bid him goodnight at around 11, Dean sat himself down on the couch and flipped through the TV channels, hoping for something that would distract him for a few hours. _TV is shit these days_ , he found himself thinking, as he made cycle after cycle through the channels. Nothing interesting. Nothing worth watching. He retrieved Sam’s laptop. Dean wasn’t sure what he was looking for. Maybe browse some stupid websites, maybe get lost in wikipedia. Maybe porn. Dean propped the computer up on his lap and opened it. The screen flashed to light, revealing a browser window with a half dozen open tabs. Sam just couldn’t leave well enough alone. Each tab was loaded to a different website dealing with interpretation of dreams. He scoffed. Sam left it like this on purpose. Dean’s first instinct was to close the browser, walk away, find something else to do, but his curiosity was piqued. It was just a load of new age bullshit anyway. What would it matter if he read some garbage a bunch of hippie jerks wrote about dreams? It would pass the time, which was all he had set out to do when he grabbed the laptop in the first place. No harm in reading. He clicked to the first tab and moved the cursor into the search field. “Snakes” he keyed in, hitting the return key and watching the results load. Dean skimmed the entry half-heartedly. Some bullshit about hidden fears and feeling threatened. Phallic symbols. Forbidden sexuality. Not confronting your fears. Your life is lacking sensuality and passion. Dean laughed a little to himself. Dean Winchester was _not_ lacking passion. He set the laptop down and fixed himself a drink. The whiskey was warm and pleasant. He sat back down and searched again. “Beards.” You are hiding your true nature or attempting to disguise who you really are. Whatever. “Tree.” New hope. Desire. Growth. Wasting your time. Fear. Guilt.. “Axe.” Destruction. Hostility. Frustration. Dean entered everything he could identify as maybe being relevant from his dream, reading through the descriptions with scepticism and cynicism at first, then interest. The more he read the more interesting it seemed. He grabbed a notebook off the stack of books Sam had been reading, flipped to a blank page, and started taking notes

 

            Dean was careful to keep an eye on the time. He closed the tabs, and the laptop, before he expected Sam to be awake. Tearing his notes out of the book, he folded the pages and stuffed them in his pocket, and by the time Sam stumbled out of his room, carding the fingers of one hand through his unruly mane of hair, there remained no evidence that Dean had been taken in by the bait. The younger Winchester would likely assume he had, of course, but Dean was never forthcoming with discussions about his emotions at the best of times, so he’d be denied confirmation. Staying up all night had not left him as exhausted as he’d hoped, he noticed with dismay. He made a pot of coffee, showered and dressed, and tried to pretend he was a functional human being.

 

            That night, he went to bed far earlier than usual. Sam was still up, tucked in to books, his attention focused fully on the pages in front of him, when Dean rose from the couch and dragged his weary self down the hall and nearly collapsed in to bed. The memory foam rose to meet his shape with welcoming familiarity. His pillow felt just the right balance of soft and firm. The temperature was just the right kind of cool. He wiggled out of his jeans without standing back up, tucked himself under the blankets, and shut his eyes. Tonight, he would sleep.

 

            He dreamed the dream again that night. Some part of Dean thought that since he’d taken his brain’s hint, and Sam’s bait, and looked in to some of the symbols his dream had been slapping him in the face with, he might get some sort of reprieve. But no, he wasn’t that lucky. It was one thing to read the interpretations, it was an entirely different thing to actively apply the notes to his life and glean something from them. That was a level of introspection Dean thought was far beyond him. So he dreamed, slept fitfully, tossed and struggled in his sleep. At least he did sleep. The dream came, only once, though it felt like it lasted all night. But when morning came, he did feel somewhat more rested than he had in weeks, and that wasn’t nothing. He’d slept so deeply, he hadn’t notice Castiel flap into the room. Dean hadn’t noticed him stand silent vigil in the corner, watching to make sure Dean was truly asleep, and then stride across the room, fish his notes out of the pocket of his jeans, and leave the room on silent wings.

 

            Castiel studied Dean’s dream notes with a quizzical expression on his face. Dreams were a truly human experience. Angels didn’t dream, which Castiel thought was mostly because they did not sleep. But he also imagined that if they did sleep, by choice, it would likely not result in any kind of dream. Sleep was a requirement of the physical, and dreams held some important part of maintaining the functionality of the physical brain. Angels had no physical form to maintain. Dreaming would be pointless. Still, he was somewhat fascinated by what he saw in human dreams. There was a surreal edge even to the dreams with the most verisimilitude. They ranged from mundane to chaotic, peaceful to horrific. He’d watched Dean’s dreams before, out of curiosity, before Dean had less than gently informed him that it was an intrusion, and quite rude. The word he’d used was ‘creepy.’ But those had been normal dreams, the kind that were forgotten as soon as they were over, or left only a lingering impression of something. This dream had grabbed a hold of Dean and refused to let go, and was burrowing its way so deep in to his subconscious that he was actually starting to think about what it meant. It was incredibly uncharacteristic for Dean to consider his feelings on a subject, even when forced to, and so Castiel was understandably concerned. He’d sacrificed almost everything for this man, everything but his Grace, and he’d give that too if he had to. He was compelled to care, even if he wasn’t allowed to show it. So he read Dean’s notes, and pondered what he’d seen in the dream, and wracked his brain for a way to help his friend.

            Dean had dreamed of Castiel, which he found satisfying. Dean considered himself aloof, a man apart, and played his cards intentionally close to the chest, but Castiel had always been able to read him. Castiel had known, had always known, that he and Dean shared a deeper bond. He just didn’t think the hunter would ever acknowledge it. That Castiel was in his dreams, even as a cryptic guide, was enough to give the angel an inkling of hope. He studied the notes that Dean had written for himself, looked at the symbols he’d pulled from the dream. He was knocking on the door of a realization that would shake the man to his foundations. Castiel wondered if Dean was prepared for it.

 

            Dean’s frustration with the dream grew. He wasn’t sleeping any better. He wasn’t any more comfortable with the idea of trying to grasp what the dream was trying to tell him. He was afraid of something; that much was obvious. And he was in denial about that fear. But the fun thing about denial is that you’re only lying to yourself, and when you’re looking to your own brain for answers, it puts up walls and they’re hard to scale. Congruent with his usual MO, Dean denied the denial and fought with himself, and sleep was elusive and unfruitful. One night, it might have been a Thursday; Dean dreamed the dream just like every other night. Only it wasn’t just like every other night. As soon as the dream began, he knew it for a dream. This was a first. Before, it had been like he was observing a thing, like a passenger in his own head, watching a scene play out in front of him, but having no mouth to speak against it, no hands to touch it, no will to interact. This time, he was aware, both that it was a dream, and of what would come next. He resolved that he would take different actions, to see how the dream reacted around him. Perhaps he’d get some new answers.

_I’m standing in a field, the breeze moving the dust from my shoulders and bringing a scent, familiar, but unidentifiable. Usually, I’d turn left, as I have countless times before. This time, I will myself to turn right. No change. I’m still flashed to the edge of the road, dust cloud still rising, the vehicle that summoned it still long gone. The tree is still there, lush and green, huge, towering over me and blocking out the unseen sun. Now I’m beside the tree, just like always. The axe is there. Instead of reaching for it, I stare a bit longer. It flickers. Now it’s an axe, now it’s a sword. I cock my head, wondering what the sword means. It solidifies back in to the axe. I shake my head. I don’t want the axe. It’s a brutal axe, meant for killing. Now it’s a sword. I pick it up, go to swing it at the tree. I know I’m supposed to cut the tree down. The talisman hangs around my neck. It feels heavy. I lift a hand to remove it. It’s too heavy. I hear Castiel’s voice._

_“Leave it Dean. You need it.” I drop the talisman, the cord still around my neck, and turn. Castiel isn’t there. I hear his voice again. “It will help you, if you let it.” I pick the sword up again, and take a swing at the tree. The blade shatters, and I’m left holding the broken hilt. It looks like it might still make a good weapon. I tuck it in to my jacket. The world shifts and I’m in the basement. Sam is still there. He’s crossing his arms, his eyes are judging me._

_“You shouldn’t be down here, Dean” He says, just like before. I look at the basement more closely. The boxes are stacked haphazardly. I don’t know whose basement this is, but I want to know what they have stashed down here. I open the box nearest me. It’s empty. They’re all empty. A basement full of empty boxes. Dust and empty boxes. I walk past Sam out the same door in the back corner. I still don’t want to go upstairs. I’m back in the hotel room. It smells like mint. I wonder for the first time where the mint comes from. Toothpaste? Gum? There are no plants. It’s not fresh mint. That familiar dirty feeling crawls over me. I shower. I don’t look at my scars in the mirror. I know they are still there, but I don’t look at them. The water still runs purple anyway. I put on the bathrobe, walk to my bag to get clean clothes. The snake is there. I don’t want to eat the snake. Why would I eat the snake? I’m confusing myself. I shake my head. The snake looks at me, coils. It’s not threatening. I reach into my bag for clean clothes, and realize I’m already dressed. I look back to the snake. It’s gone. That’s odd. Where did the snake go? I look under the bed, but it’s not there. When I stand up, I’m on the lawn of our old house. It smells like cinnamon and basil. I love the smell of cinnamon. Why does it smell like cinnamon? I breathe deeply._

_“You don’t have to have scars anymore, Dean.” I turn to Castiel. I know he will be there this time, not just a disembodied voice. His face is unsettling._

_“What do they feed on,” I ask. If he’s a construct of my own mind, he’s trying to tell me something. I need to know what it is._

_“You know.” He says, and his face is old Cas again for a moment. He smiles._

_“I do know.” I tell, but I’m not sure what I mean._

_“Put the sword away, Dean. You don’t need it anymore.” I look down and I see that I’m holding the broken sword. My knuckles are white on the handle._

_“I don’t know how to let go,” I answer. “Can you help me?” Castiel reaches out for the broken blade. He cuts himself on the jagged edge, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He takes my hand in his, turns it over, peels my fingers off the handle. I drop the blade. It falls to the ground silently. “Are you going to disappear now?” I ask him. He’d usually be gone by now, in the old dream._

_“Do you want me to?” I shake my head. “You look wrong with a beard.”_

_“Should I get rid of it?” I ask hesitantly. I don’t know why I have a beard. I don’t remember growing it._

_“If you want to. I just don’t think it suits you.” He responds, then looks towards the house. My Dad is there now. “You’re not broken, you know.” Says Castiel, and he lets go of my hand._

_“Are you finally going to learn to walk, Dean?” say my father. He’s looking at me now, not at Other-Dean._

_“I’m not sure I know the difference,” I answer. My legs feel like I’ve been running forever._

_“It’s not that hard.” I hear Other-Dean say. He’s still older than me, but he doesn’t have a beard now. I look at him quizzically. He’s never talked to me in the dream before._

_“Are you me?” I ask him, knowing it sounds dumb._

_“I could be. One day. But I don’t have to. Stop feeding your scars and maybe I won’t be.” Other-Dean smiles at me. The lines on his face deepen. I feel like he hasn’t smiled enough. I turn to look at Castiel. He’s not there._

_“Where did he go?” I ask. It feels wrong that he would leave without saying anything, even though he does it all the time in the waking world._

_“Do you know which path you’ve chosen?” Dad asks. Other-Dean has a knife in his hand now. I grab his wrist, make him drop it._

_“I know where I want to go,” I say. “But I don’t know which road I need to be on.” Dad is smiling at me. It’s a sad smile, but it’s honest._

_“My little hunter, all grown up. The destination is more important than the road. But you might try asking for directions.” I pick up Castiel’s trench-coat, the bloody one from when he walked in to the lake. It feels warm, like he was just wearing it a second ago._

Dean woke up with a start. He’d changed the dream. He didn’t know that could be done! It was so different. He sat up in bed and glanced at the clock, and as he did so, he became aware of someone else in the room.

“Cas?” He ventured a guess. Sam wouldn’t stand there creeping on him. “Why are you standing in the dark watching me sleep? I thought we talked about this.”

“You called out for me, Dean.” That didn’t seem right. He was sleeping. How could he pray to Cas while he was sleeping?

“I don’t think so dude. I’ve been asleep for,” he looked at the clock again. “At least 3 hours.” Castiel walked out of the shadows. He’d shed his trench-coat and now just wore the wrinkled blue suit and tie. He came to sit on the edge of Dean’s bed.

“Nevertheless, I heard you.” He smiled at Dean in the dim light. “Sam tells me you haven’t been sleeping well. That you have been dreaming.”

“When did you talk to Sam?” Dean found himself getting defensive. He had perspective, now, after the new dream, and as his mind crawled out of the fog of sleep, he found himself staggered by the understanding of his own mind. It was unexpected, but he didn’t dare give voice to it, not yet.

“It is of no import. You were troubled, and I worried about you.” Dean cut his eyes away from Cas, before they betrayed him. Cas reached a hand out for his friend’s shoulder, rested it there gently, a gesture of comfort and safety.

“It’s just a dream, Cas. I’m fine,” he lied. He was not fine. He knew what the dream was telling him now. Try as he might, he couldn’t deny what his brain had been trying to show him for so many weeks, and it was not a comforting realization. Cas’s hand on his shoulder was a lead weight, burning and heavy and distracting. He’d rested it right over the handprint he’d left, years before, when Cas had dragged him out of hell. Dean wasn’t sure if it was intentional, but it was certainly powerful.

“You’re not fine, Dean. I know you.” Dean could feel eyes burning in to him. He looked up, still not wanting to meet Cas’s eyes, but uncomfortable ignoring his presence. “Whatever’s troubling you, you should ask for help. I will assist you, if I’m able. Sam will help you.” Dean laughed.

“I’m not gonna talk to Sam about my messed up dreams, Cas.” He sighed.

“What about me? Can you tell me about your dream?” Castiel’s face was unreadable in the dark, but his presence was stoic and comforting.

“I appreciate it, but I think I have it figured out. I don’t think talking is going to fix anything.” Dean smiled ruefully, now meeting Castiel’s gaze for the first time he woke. Dean didn’t know what his own eyes showed, but Cas’s were impenetrable calm, strength and peace and warmth. And for just a second, Dean thought he looked hopeful. Dean hesitated. “I know which path I want to take,” he spoke softly, slowly. He leaned in ever so slightly, and when Castiel didn’t move back in response, he moved even closer, until it was almost impossible to tell where he ended and Cas began. He couldn’t be certain, it was so very subtle, but he thought that Cas smelled faintly of cinnamon. “I think I’m in love with you, Castiel,” He blurted out before he could think to stop himself. It was ungraceful, ungainly, juvenile and ridiculous and he couldn’t take it back. But then, he wasn’t sure he really wanted to. “I think I have been for a while.” He looked to Cas for a reaction, some form of acknowledgement, anything at all.

“This is what your dream told you.” If Castiel had an opinion on this revelation, he wasn’t sharing. He met Dean’s eyes, squinting a little, and Dean felt like he was being weighed and measured and dissected. He’d misjudged, he was sure of it now. He hadn’t even thought about whether Cas would return his fumbled advances, hadn’t had time to consider it. If the angel hadn’t been standing there when he woke up, he could have considered it more rationally and maybe he would have had a better game plan or maybe he would have been smoother or maybe he wouldn’t have done anything at all or maybe….he was panicking. Dean took a deep breath and decided on damage control

“It pointed me in the right direction, yeah. Look, forget I said anyth…” Dean’s words were cut off by Castiel’s lips brushing against his. The kiss was brief, gentle, and tenuous. Cas drew back, let out a breath Dean didn’t realize the angel had been holding. The tension vanished from the room then, and Dean was leaning forward again, pressing his lips to Cas’s, no hesitation now, only need and hunger and desire. He kissed his angel with passion he didn’t know he possessed, leaning in to the kiss, and wondering how much of this his denial had caused him to miss out on. He didn’t even know how long he’d _been_ in denial at this point. All he knew was that he wanted this, needed this. He needed the angel to stop running away on angel business. He needed him to invade Dean’s personal space. He needed to kiss the angel, like he was now, and touch him and be close to him. He needed to admit all the things he’d been lying to himself about for god only knows how long. He pulled away, gently breaking the kiss, one hand cupping Cas’s chin in a tender gesture. “Cas I…”

“I know Dean. I’ve always known. I was just waiting for you to know.”

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired to write this fic by the song "Melt" by Phil Roy. it gets stuck in my head on a semi-regular basis and it's quite haunting, but I also felt like it lent itself well to a Destiel fic. This isn't the first fanfiction I've written but it's the first one I've shared with anyone so feedback is welcome but be nice! 
> 
>  
> 
> Here's a list of the symbolism references I used in writing this. (I don't know that I put any actual stock in dream analysis but I like how the story turned out so who gives a bibble.)  
> Tree: New hope, growth, desire, knowledge, strength, protection, stability. Wasting your energy on foolish pursuits, sexual fear, guilt
> 
> Axe: Overly controlling. Destruction, hostility, frustration. Dividing your problems in to smaller, more manageable pieces
> 
> Snake: fears and worries. Something in your waking life that you are not consciously aware of yet. Temptation, forbidden sexuality. Issue that you are not confronting, refusing to face your fears. Desire for intimacy, sexual fulfillment. Lacking sensuality or passion
> 
> Purple: Healing, loving, kindness, compassion
> 
> Bathrobe: Personal needs/Privacy issues. Inability to confront sexual or intimate situations
> 
> Basement: confusion
> 
> Scars: Struggles, painful memories, bad feelings. Living in the past. Insecurities.
> 
> Beard: trying to conceal your true feelings. Being deceptive.
> 
> Killing your father: Rejecting rules. Killing an aspect of your own self.
> 
> Fire: Undergo a transformation. Not ready for the change
> 
> Talisman: Protection. Put aside pride and ask for help.
> 
> Mint: Calming influence. You are too excited and need to relax. A relationship you need to soothe. Make amends
> 
> Sword: Strength, ambition, competitive nature. Masculine power.
> 
> Knife: Anger, separation. Sexual tension or confrontation
> 
> Cinnamon: Renewal, purification. Do something out of character
> 
> Basil: Kindness, sweetness, deep love
> 
> Blood: Love, passion. Emotional cry for help.


End file.
